


Femslash Ficlets

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: (lightly) - Freeform, Canon Era, F/F, Mixing Legends into canon, Multi, No Rogue One spoilers, Pregnancy Kink, Tua Lives AU, Two Moms Pregnancy Fluff, lactation mention, star wars femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8810719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: Star Wars needs more femslash and I am happy to aid in this cause.NSFW chapters will be listed here when posted.





	1. Authority, Jyn/Rivoche

Jyn’s watched her for two rotations now. The Tarkin spy is shorter than Jyn had expected, broad-shouldered and statuesque, hair white at the roots even though Cassian told her that she’s barely 20 standard years old. She’s as sharp-featured as her terror of an uncle, always dressed in dark gowns and loose veils with a red R2 unit gliding along beside her like an attendant.  Jyn follows her now, captivated by the natural authority in her stride as she collects her food, eyes high above the seated heads of those who do not trust her.

 

Cassian and the others aren’t petty enough to dare her to do this. No, Jyn thinks as she walks over to where Rivoche Tarkin is waiting for her droid to rejoin her, this has nothing to do with them, nothing to do with her trepidation towards this woman that Princess Leia will not approach even now that the Death Star lies in as many shattered remnants as Alderaan. This is an act of trust for a young woman by someone who has only recently learned how precious such acts are.

 

Besides, Jyn thinks as she sweeps a hand through her hair for knots, she’s never been able to keep herself from betting against the odds.

 

“Hey,” she chokes out in Rivoche’s general direction.

 

 _Truly inspired_ , she can practically hear Baze say behind her.

 

Rivoche turns to her, her veil sliding away to expose a slice of her braided hair. “Rivoche Tarkin, though I suppose you already knew that.” Her voice is lower than Jyn expected, rumbling out of her in a forceful purr. “And you?”

 

Jyn is halfway through her name when she is cut off by a rather indignant series of beeps from the R2 unit, who has returned with a cup of steaming caf.

 

“Oh, how rude of me. I’m Rivoche Tarkin, and this is R2-R5.”

 

“Ah…” Jyn manages, eyes fixed on Rivoche’s taunt, plump mouth.

 

Rivoche’s dark-painted eyebrows raise. She takes the caf from R5 with a gentle touch. “You seem surprised that I can understand Common Binary. I assure you, my political views are not the only part of me that do not align with my family’s, hm, doctrine.”

 

Jyn grits her teeth as Rivoche smiles at her own wit, can perfectly picture Cassian eavesdropping while still trying to engage Baze and Chirrut in conversation at their table.

 

“Well, Cassian—Captain Andor—he rescued an Imperial security droid. K2-SO.”

 

Rivoche’s eyes sweep the length of Jyn’s body. Suddenly, her resemblance to the Grand Moff is jarring. “‘Rescued’ him, did he? Well, could one of them tell me where R5 could find an oil bath? No damned efficiency around here.”

 

Cassian rises up from his seat. He sinks back down into it with one look from Jyn.

 

“I can take you,” she asserts, watching as Rivoche sips her caf calmly.

 

“Well then, Jyn Erso, you can get Director Krennic killed, steal my uncle’s life’s work, and save my friend here from rusting into oblivion. My hero.”

 

Jyn tries not to bristle at the whoop of laughter Chirrut emits at that, almost dropping the cup of caf Rivoche hands her. “A token of my gratitude,” she says with an honest grin.

 

Jyn stares at the soft imprint of pink for only a moment before matching her lips to it and taking a deep, throat-shuddering drink.  It is black, unsweetened, and completely unbearable to Jyn’s senses.

 

“Thank you,” she replies after her tongue stops trying to burst free from her mouth to escape the taste she’s consumed.

 

Rivoche rests a hand on R5, her eyes distant and glassy. “Let’s see about that oil bath sooner rather than later.”

 

Jyn follows silently, R5 tittering with what sounds suspiciously like laughter the entire way. 


	2. Navigating, Maketh Tua/Hera Sydulla

Maketh winces at the same time Hera stiffens and frowns. “I don’t dance.”

 

“Oh, how rude of me to assume…of course. I’ll just be going to check on that transmission now. I do hope Lady Tano doesn’t mind me—“

 

“Stay.” Zeb’s voice is rough with the command. “I haven’t met somebody who knows Sosa Gardel in years besides Sabine with those remixes.” He looks warily at Maketh. “Still wonder how you do, actually.”

 

Maketh surprises herself with a laugh, trying to ignore Hera’s inscrutable look from across the table. “My father used to play their and other similar records in his shop after hours. Mama hated them, but she never stopped him from teaching me how to dance to them as a child.”

 

“Show me.”

 

“Zeb…” Hera sighs. “Besides, I doubt she wants to dance with me anyways.”

  
  
Maketh’s face heats in embarrassment. She’s ready with a stumbling apology, likely destined to talk herself right back into trouble, but Zeb is faster. “Hera, just help her out. If you lead, you just stand there and shuffle. She’ll do all the work.”

 

Maketh holds out her hand slightly, smiling as invitingly as she can. “I’d very much like to dance with you.”

 

“Fine,” Hera says, taking one of Maketh’s hands and allowing her to rest the other against the very bottom edge of her breastplate. Hera is slightly shorter than her, her shoulder narrow yet strong under Maketh’s touch.

 

Zeb starts a record and Maketh gently pushes against Hera’s hand to get them to move to the left in something like tandem. The music is rich, familiar. Maketh is emboldened by it, exaggerating the swing of her hips on her longer steps, smooth and slightly showy. Hera holds her close, their eyes shyly meeting until Hera guides them directly into the corridor and against a wall.

 

Maketh sighs with a laugh to follow, reluctantly dropping Hera’s hands and shaking her head. “I can’t stay on-beat, and you seem to be better at piloting ships, Captain.” The insult is playful, casual and thrilling for being so.

 

Zeb’s ears twitch, his smile full of teeth. “Hell of a pair you two are.”

 

There is something in Hera’s expression that opened as they danced, however, and that remains even when they rejoin Zeb at the table. A light to her eyes, a curious set to her brow, the soft curve of her mouth—it’s all strangely intimate, too much so and yet not enough all at once.

 

Then two Jedi burst in, of course, chased by the droid they call Chopper. The older one promptly smacks into the wall, earning a tired smirk from Hera.  The Mandalorian girl—Sabine—seems to appear from nowhere, grinning at them before racing off after the cacophony, a can of paint in hand.

 

Zeb snorts, getting to his feet with a groan. “Better go see what that’s about. Make sure Chopper’s not setting any of them on fire.”

 

Hera rolls her eyes, turning closely to Maketh. “Miss the Empire yet?”

 

Maketh laughs again, causing her breasts to brush against one of Hera’s lekku. She freezes, immediately lowering her eyes and tampering down the urge to raise her hand to stroke one.

 

“You run a fine ship, Captain,” she replies after a moment, blinking unsurely under the warmth of Hera’s gaze. “And no, I find that I do not.”

 

 


	3. Expectations, Jyn/Rivoche (Semi-NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of a much, much larger project that I’ve been outlining for a while now. I’ve tried to give enough context here for the setting and relationships to make sense (they're very different from what's included in the first ficlet I wrote about them), but this is more of a teaser than anything. My facecast for Rivoche is Ruth Negga, in case you'd like to picture her more clearly in the meantime.

Yavin IV’s heat (not to mention the base as a whole), is distinctly unpleasant, as Rivoche enjoys reminding herself and everyone around her as often as possible. R5 always agrees, of course, though Rivoche barely sees her now that she’s volunteered to help Andor and Dameron with Erso’s extraction. Rook is decent enough, bringing her caf one morning while she scoffed at the state of the motivators within twelve different R4 units, though he’s implied that Dr. Erso’s arrival will ease her burden—a phrase far too close to powerlessness for Rivoche to find comfort in.

 

“We’re waiting for Papa,” Jyn tells anyone who casts her a sympathetic glance, their eyes never venturing above her swollen belly or Rivoche’s drawn mouth.

 

Truly, the Rebellion gluts itself on pity.

 

Rivoche sighs, contorting her face while she undoes her braid and ties a sleeping scarf around her head. Jyn has already fallen asleep, barely managing the walk back from the cafeteria on Rivoche’s arm before untying her dress and immediately huddling in their bunk. Rivoche has never known her to find sleep easily, and both of them are thankful that their child is content to periodically sit on her bladder instead of kicking up a fury for hours as some do.

 

“This one takes after me,” she murmurs, laying on her side to maximize Jyn’s space. “I was late as well. My mother went into labor after drinking a glass of wine and my father finished off the bottle while he held her hand.”

 

Jyn rises slightly, the naked curve of her belly round and full against her hips. She giggles against the back of her hand, rosy nails trailing downwards towards her navel.

 

“I’d rather be overdue than giving birth in a Separatist prison,” she says with a toss of her head, her fingers sliding around the swell of her thigh.

 

“So you’ve told me,” Rivoche purrs, tugging on Jyn’s short braid before crooking her fingers to beckon her closer.

 

Jyn curls against Rivoche greedily, the press of their breasts together and the quirk of Jyn’s lips worth suffering every moment of irritation she’s felt today. They are heavier now than ever, resting atop the slope of Jyn’s belly when she sits upright or stands. She’s refused Rivoche’s help in expressing the first of her milk so far, choosing instead to wrap one of Rivoche’s silk scarves under her dresses and bear the swelling.

 

“I’d just make more to no one’s benefit,” she protests every time Rivoche cups them in offering, gasping against the softness of her palms. “And I’d never be able to dress properly if Papa comes back early.”

 

Rivoche always relents to Jyn’s pleas in the moments they’re voiced, though she fails to in her mind many times while organizing the code of near-defunct astromechs. There is an appeal to the obscenity of Jyn flushed from the heat, her wrappings damp against her skin as she clings to Erso, her belly against his a reminder of Rivoche’s influence. _Primal_ , her uncle would have called it. _Natural for one who thrives in dominance_.

 

Jyn sniffs indulgently against Rivoche, her eyes damp beneath the weight of her fringe. She’s closed them before Rivoche can draw an answer from her as to why, though she holds her suspicions. She settles Jyn to her as tightly as she can bear, her gaze steady upon the pulse beneath their entwined fingers until she, too, falls asleep.


End file.
